


Uncurling Lifelines

by onekingdomonce



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Typical Warnings, M/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 21:25:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13983633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekingdomonce/pseuds/onekingdomonce
Summary: Growing up, Laurent had often heard about the ancient allegory, young boys and girls around the court whispering insistently about how they had woken up with their own mark, their own word signifying their other half.The very fact that you could wake up one day with a word suddenly inked on your skin, a form of endearment that you shared with someone who could be in any of the kingdoms, branded into your skin like an engraving.Laurent was ten years old when his own word appeared.





	Uncurling Lifelines

It hadn’t been a problem when Laurent was younger.

Or rather, it hadn’t been much of a concern when Laurent was younger. It was more so something faintly in his mind, something that was distantly there but rarely acknowledged unless seen, a freckle or a hint of discoloration. Really, it was something for Laurent to scoff at and Auguste to tease him about.

Growing up, Laurent had often heard about the ancient allegory, young boys and girls around the court whispering insistently about how they had woken up with their own mark, their own word signifying their other half. Laurent had paid it no mind and very little interest, feeling as if it was some silly, mythologized fable he could have come across in one of his books. In all honestly, he had come across even more interesting things in his tales of fiction, and found this notion to be a bit ridiculous, if not unrealistic. 

The very fact that you could wake up one day with a word suddenly inked on your skin, a form of endearment that you shared with someone who could be in any of the kingdoms, branded into your skin like an engraving. Laurent would undress each night, and it was only after he would catch himself gazing in the mirror at different parts of his bare body that he realized that he was giving in to this nonsense. 

Nonsense. That’s what it was, up until he saw the curling of black on the side of Auguste’s neck, just peaking out of the laces of his collar, nearly hidden by the fall of his golden hair. 

“What is that?” Laurent had said, nearly spitting out his juice as he set his glass down heavily, leaning forward in his seat like his eyes were deceiving him. 

He could still remember the way Auguste had smiled that day, pushing a finger beneath the fabric and pulling it aside, baring his neck with pride like he had been waiting for this moment, the moment in which he could show someone the swirling letters on his neck. _Beloved._

“Auguste,” Laurent has said, trying to understand why his brother looked like he was moments away from ascending, rather years. “What is that?”

Auguste touched his fingers to his pulse, right beside a blue vein that ran through the patterns. “My soulmate.”

Laurent didn’t know what expression that spurred on, but it was enough for Auguste to let out a soft laugh as he set his collar back in place, smoothing the top down. “Laurent,” he said, in that chastising voice he would use when one of the chefs would mumble about where the pile of apples had gone and Laurent would shrug, dusting hay off the back of his trousers. “You know what this signifies, it’s not the first time you’ve heard of it.”

It wasn’t, but it was certainly the fist time Laurent had _seen_ it, on his older brother of all people no less. He found himself leaning back in his seat, poking at the eggs on his plate with his fork. “It’s garish,” he muttered.

“It’s exciting,” Auguste responded, handing Laurent a knife. “You’ll see when your own appears.” 

That had earned Auguste a long, cool look, and Laurent another bout of laughter. That had been then, and despite his better judgment, there were still nights where Laurent found himself inspecting his body at night before lying under the covers.

Laurent was ten years old when his own word appeared. 

It seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Laurent hadn’t even noticed it at first, and it was ironically Auguste who pointed it out, the two of them sitting across from each other at the desk in Auguste’s chambers, sorting through a stack of papers that required organization. It was nothing suited for either of their ranks, but they both enjoyed these sparse moments that could belong to just the two of them, ones that were becoming less frequent with the passing weeks.

One second Laurent was reaching for a pile of treaties from a previous encounter with the Vaskian delegation and the next his arm was being snatched, parchments falling to his feet in a single _swoosh_ as Auguste tugged Laurent’s hand towards his face. Laurent hadn’t fought it, of course. This was Auguste. He simply blinked in confusion as Auguste picked his way through the laces covering Laurent’s wrist, brows drawn together in concentration. Laurent waited, legs swinging in impatience, and the movement of his feet changed in uncertain nature when he saw the way Auguste’s lips had begun to spread. 

“Have you seen this?” Auguste asked, two steady taps on his skin like a pulse beat.

“What?” Laurent asked. “Did the edge of the paper slice me?”

That couldn’t be right, it wouldn’t have caused Auguste to smile like that, like something cherished had been found, or a wager won. He released Laurent’s fingers and allowed him to pull his hand back, and it took Laurent a few seconds of unsteadiness before the fog in his mind cleared and he saw the neat, slanted cursive that made his heart throb repeatedly in his chest. 

It was barely noticeable then, so dim and hazy that it might have just been ink residue from the quill rubbed on his wrist, the juice of a berry from lunch smeared across his skin. That did nothing to stop the drop of Laurent’s stomach when he saw the word, glaring back at him despite the way it was not yet fully imbedded in his flesh. _Sweetheart._

“Congratulations, brother,” Auguste was saying. Laurent looked up rapidly like he had been laughed at. “I’m happy for you.”

The worst part was that Auguste _was_ happy for him, Laurent could see it in the twinkle of his eye and the way his lips refused to fall flat. Laurent didn’t understand it; nothing about this particular situation was pleasant to him.

“As long as _you’re_ happy,” Laurent said. He may have screeched. He was gripping the bones of his wrist in his hand like it was someone else’s.

“Oh, stop. This is a wonderful thing.” He grabbed Laurent’s fingers in his own, leaning across the desk. “There’s someone out there who was made for you, I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

“I,“ Laurent didn’t know what to say, what to do with _this_.

“I don’t know if there’s anyone that deserves you,” Auguste told him. “But I can’t wait to meet them.”

Laurent tried to ignore it as time went on. He did, but that proved a little difficult when the word seemed to grow in color and size the older he got. What was initially a minor dusting of letters had become bold, unignorable, undeniable. 

There were times where Laurent had read up on it and seen physicians, trying to discover all options of removing this blot from his skin so it would stop eyeing him every time he unlaced his jacket and got into bed. Or worse, removed all of his clothing and got into a bath, nothing on his exposed body but the form of endearment that someone, somewhere would be branded with as well.

He always received the same responses. There was no cure, there was no removal. If  
the mark found you, it was only a matter of time before you found each other.

But then, there were times where Laurent did the opposite. They were much fewer in occurrence and only took up a portion of his mind, thought they were there. Whether it be the times Laurent would take his horse around the hills of Arles and feel the emptiness beside him, or the days he would walk the gardens and see pairings strolling through the blossoms with fingers linked, Laurent would only realize he was touching his mark when he felt the grazing of his nails. 

The impression of the mark seemed to intensify as those definitive months had closed in on them all, just as the feeling in the pit of Laurent’s stomach had, gnawing at his nerves and robbing him of sleep and appetite. His mother had died. Kempt had withdrawn their alliance. The Akielons were attacking. Auguste was leaving him to fight on the front. 

The mark on Laurent’s wrist had flamed that night, the indentation of each letting searing into him like his veins were going to burst with heat, like fire was spreading through his bloodstream, causing all ten letters to burn through his hand and imprint themselves into every part of his body. Laurent hadn’t understood it at the time, and some desperate part of his terror filled mind had convinced him that this might be a new protector, some foreign part of his destiny, his _other half_ watching over Laurent, promising him that his brother would come back to him.

Laurent sat there on the blood caked grass, fingers gripping his wrist like a vise as if the pressure of his hold could combat what was happening in his throat, tears steaming down his face as he waited to see his brother’s shining eyes again. 

Laurent would be friendlier with the other kids around the palace. He would put the books down and pick up a sword. He would stop sneaking apples and carrots from the kitchen for the horses and he would try not to trail after Auguste all the time, if that was what he wanted. Anything. Laurent would do anything, so long as he came back.

That night, with Laurent’s face pressed into his pillow and his throat croaking and dry, he wondered how long it would take for the word _beloved_ to disintegrate with the rest of Auguste’s body. 

In the short years following Marlas, Laurent would at times, mindlessly, find himself wrapping his fingers around the letters that adorned him like they would seep comfort into his veins, like the prospect of someone belonging to him would be a salve for his breaking heart, as if there was someone out there that could provide even a moment of relief from the ever crushing pain of his brother being taken away from him.

Laurent was a boy then. A young, foolish boy. And the only thing that Laurent was sure of as each year passed, and the wall around his heart became gradually encased in chips of ice was that relief did not exist, and those whimsical wishes should have died when he was ten years old, sitting across from his brother’s glowing smile. 

Auguste had not lived long enough to find his other half and as Laurent’s twentieth birthday began to near, he found himself wondering if he would live long enough to find his.

 

The day had begun as terrible as any other, and only progressed so as the news was brought to Laurent. The unwelcome, unbidden news that made his fingers curl inward so tightly that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he felt them push through skin and bone.

Something had happened. There had been some attack, the Akielons too busy running a country of barbarians to maintain any form of peace in their capital. 

The king was killed. The bastard was on the throne. Damianos of Akielos was dead.

The one thing that Laurent had wanted was gone, taken from him like everything else life had snatched out of his hands. Laurent had long ago become accustomed to the fact that the things you cherished most would never become yours, but he thought he could have this one, simple thing. To meet Damianos, to look into his eyes, and to gut him like a pig. 

All Laurent wanted to do was retire to his chambers and smash something with his fists, or perhaps find something else to drive his sword into. Instead, he had to go play nice with this new dreadful alliance that his uncle had bestowed upon them all and be presented with a slave, straight from Akielos’ new king. _A gift_.

Laurent walked through the halls with his guards on either side of him, paying no mind to anything but the churning in his body as the doors were pulled open, the room a cluster of courtiers and silken drapes, boots clacking against the tiled floor as he walked.

“I hear the king of Akielos has sent me a gift,” Laurent said, the words rolling off his tongue listlessly as his footsteps came to a stop. He pointed his eyes to the large, dark figure crouched on the ground, impatience rolling through him in waves as the slave raised his head, his gaze falling on Laurent without a shred of subtly.

Falling. That was the only word Laurent could think of, the only word that could describe what was happening in the pit of his stomach, what he felt like was happening to the ground beneath his feet. 

“An Akielon groveling on its knees,” Laurent managed to push out. “How fitting.”

Their gazes locked, and Laurent didn’t think he had ever felt such abhorrence in his life as he did in that moment, the instant he looked into Damianos of Akielos’ eyes.

Guion was speaking to him, but Laurent felt as if he was only half listening, everything else just a collection of sounds, screeches in his ears, scrapes inside his head. He said something about intent, and Laurent only managed to spit back a short response before deciding that he had had enough and ordered them to break him on the cross. 

The courtiers were making to leave, the handler bending down to unlink his chain from the ground, releasing him. He was looking up at Laurent with scorn and contempt, a fire in his eyes that Laurent so bitterly understood. Laurent knew that feeling intimately. It was the single thing that drove him those past few years, spurring him on with purpose. 

“Wait,” Laurent said suddenly. The handler paused immediately, gazing up for a second before rising. Laurent wasn’t sure what it was exactly that stopped him, but he was stepping forward without much thought, peering down his nose.

“I want to speak to him,” he said. “Remove the gag.”

“He’s got a mouth on him,” the handler warned. 

Laurent didn’t look away. “Do it.”

The cloth was removed, and Laurent watched in disdain as he visibly moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth, head still tipped up in defiance.

_What’s your name, sweetheart?_

Somehow, against all odds, Laurent didn’t realize it. The sentence seemed to just slip out, and it didn’t even register when he repeated it in Akielon. Slowly, carefully. 

But then. Then it was thrown back at him. Rapidly, swiftly, as quick as Laurent had been slow, an immediate response like it could do nothing but link itself to Laurent’s statement, chasing after the word like they could not be separated by more than a few seconds, like both halves were meant to go together.

_I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart. ___

__There was no- this wasn’t-_ _

A long, helpless stream of words wound their way around Laurent’s brain, coiling around his lungs and squeezing like a cobra. The thoughts were idiotic, a child’s plea of _no!_ _It can’t be!_

__It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be true; fate couldn’t possibly be this cruel to him. Laurent had nothing, every single ounce of happiness squeezed out of his body in an unrelenting knuckle grip. He couldn’t lose this too. He couldn’t have any last remaining drop of dignity he had left in him be sucked out like this._ _

__Laurent couldn’t see it, technically. His wrists were adorned in gold and covering that part of him, but Laurent knew. Like the unpleasant curl in your stomach and the acrid taste in your throat before the vomit arose, Laurent knew what he would find if he took a mallet and pried the cuff open._ _

__Laurent was wrong. He had thought that unexpectedly coming face to face with Damianos of Akielos was abhorrence, but that was nothing compared to the terrifying revulsion of finding out that he was Laurent’s soulmate._ _

__

__Laurent’s mind was swimming that night, his head feeling like it was been removed and wrapped in a wine soaked towel. Two wine bottles, to be exact._ _

__He wasn’t aware of much, other than the stalk back to his rooms and the demand for liquor to be brought to him. He had paced the entirety of his chambers, alternating between staring into the fire, sitting with his head in his hands and gasping for air on the balcony._ _

__He would go to see Paschal again. He would hire another physician, hundreds of them if it meant he could find something with a cure, something to rid Laurent of this. As it was, Laurent was heavily considering retrieving one of the daggers stashed in his room and using it to scrape the letters off._ _

__It was somewhere during the second bottle, the cork long ago thrown across the room and the liquid pouring down his throat straight from the neck when Laurent began to claw at the laces on his wrist. They were as complicated as they always were, and the alcohol weighing his body down was doing nothing to help the blurring image before him._ _

__By the time the sleeve was pulled apart, Laurent’s skin was full of red marks from the desperate scrape of his nails, but they did nothing to cover the word, that one word that had been with him for years now, at times overlooked but never forgotten._ _

__Laurent felt his head drop forward as he laughed soundlessly, his knuckled white from the gradual tightening of his hold. He kept his head down and felt as his shoulders shook with empty laughter, pressing his face into his palms as his laughter turned into something of hysteria. His body continued to move as he fought to breath, nearly choking on large gulps of air, rasping with it. The room was too small, the fire too hot._ _

__He breathed in once through his nose, a deep inhale to soothe his rapid heartbeat, but there was nothing that could ease this, nothing to take this away. Laurent grabbed for the bottle aimlessly, fingers cutting through the air twice before he grabbed hold of the glass, draining the rest in one pour before he slammed it down on the table beside him, pushing himself up._ _

__He had hidden long enough. It was time to go meet his destiny._ _

__

__It was a decision that Laurent made when his uncle departed the palace for Chastillon, cautious but decisive. He could feel the hesitancy in his steps as he made for the royal baths, leaning his back along the wall and waiting. This was what he had to do if he wanted to inflict even a fraction of the pain that he had ever felt. Every action had a reaction, and Laurent knew what this simulated situation would lead to. Some risks were worth the outcome they derived._ _

__Laurent knew what else he was doing, it was the first thing that had clicked into place after he had made the decision. Those past few days, Laurent had been dressing as he always had, collar high and laces tight. No part of his skin apart for his hands, neck and face had been on display, and he knew what this meant. What he was baring._ _

__There were only three people to ever exist who knew about the mark on Laurent’s body. Himself, his brother, and uncle. Laurent could hear uncle’s voice, the mocking way with which he would throw the lone word in his face, and Laurent squared his shoulders as the doors to the baths were pushed open._ _

__Three people knew about the word on Laurent’s wrist, and it was about to become four._ _

__“Strip,” Laurent said, watching as he pulled at the pin and let the garments fall carelessly. Brown eyes met blue. The letters on Laurent’s wrist blazed._ _

__“Undress me,” Laurent said._ _

__There was no sense in drawing the inevitable out. Laurent knew the instant he walked into this spot that the moment was coming, and it was best to get it behind him. Laurent extended a hand, palm up to indicate the starting point, and watched as Damianos began to pick at the laces that would reveal the word on his skin._ _

__For a few seconds, the only thing Laurent could think of was the puerile times he would do this same thing and look down, some boyish part of his mind fantasizing, wondering what he would do if he ever faced whoever it was that bore the same word on their wrist. Looking at Damianos now, Laurent knew exactly what he would do. Or rather, what he wanted to do._ _

__Laurent saw the moment it was revealed, Damianos’ thumbs stilling as every part of his body froze, his shoulders moving slowly with breath as he remained locked in that position for a second. Another second. Three._ _

__Slowly, far slower than the wild beat of his heart, Damianos’ eyes lifted from the word and moved up Laurent’s arm, his chest, his neck, his eyes._ _

__He said nothing. Laurent couldn’t read the expression on his face, and he had to bite his own tongue before he said something injudicious and ended this before it had begun._ _

__Wordlessly, he pulled his hand away and offered the next, and Damianos was silent as he unlaced the rest of Laurent’s clothing, Laurent somehow managing to hold his repulse in with a firm press of his lips. When it was finally over and there was nothing between them but cuffs and words, Laurent stood straight and felt as eyes raked over him slowly._ _

__“Wash me,” Laurent said, and it became a new exercise in resistance as Laurent underwent this form of handling, majority of his focus zeroed in on his breakfast not coming back up his throat._ _

__Steam rose around them as water poured down his body. The air was hot and Laurent was aware of it, particularly of the swirls on their skin. He felt as the quality of air changed around them, and he felt the moment in which things shifted, the unmistakable tangibility that he was reluctantly waiting for. He had expected it, dreaded it, but still he bit out, “don’t be presumptuous.”_ _

__“Too late, sweetheart,” Damianos said, and Laurent could have reached down his throat and pulled out his lungs for how easily the word had rolled off his tongue, for the ease with which he took the one undeniable thing and threw it in Laurent’s face like he knew how much it would ache._ _

__It was the hand adorning their shared word that he had struck out, and it was the word that Damianos looked at as he caught Laurent’s wrist, fingers biting into his skin as he looked at the letters like he was absorbing them, eyes unmoving before he lifted them back up. If there was any hesitation as to what Laurent had to do, it was gone, drained like the water dripping down their feet._ _

__It hadn’t been fire that Laurent had felt seeping into his bloodstream on the night of Marlas, his wrist flaming under his sleeve. It had been poison._ _

__

__Everybody had their weak spots, their one factor in which their judgment may not be the sharpest in every aspect. Laurent knew that, and he was willing to admit that he may have been a bit gullible to not expect two assassination attempts on his life in one day._ _

__The second one was a surprise, that much he could confess. How foolish it had been to think that the murder of his horse and the subsequent attempted murder on his own life to be all he had to endure in a single span of hours. Naive of him, really._ _

__It was still not as surprising as the breathless way in which Laurent and Damianos faced each other in his ruined chambers, the breath ribboning out of both of them as a man spasmed at their feet, two bodies a few inches away, the realization of what the Akielon had just done for him settling over his body like ice water._ _

__Laurent’s instincts were fast despite the chalis rushing through his bloodstream, and he was quick to change the grip around the hilt of his dagger, as quick as the Akielon was in moving against him. Their bodies collided, and all other sensation faded away like smoke when Laurent felt the Akielon grip the bones of his wrist, the warmth of his hand pressed against his wrist._ _

__Laurent felt something shudder through him violently, and he felt his mark spark so intensely that he wouldn’t be surprised if the words transferred to the Akielon’s palm as an added brand. Laurent’s arm jolted with the thought, and he felt thick fingers tighten in turn._ _

__“Let go of my arm,” Laurent said._ _

__“Drop the knife,” the Akielon replied._ _

__“If you do not let go of my arm,” Laurent said, knowing by now that the Akielon acted with precision, and that their point of contact was no mistake, “It will not go easily for you.”_ _

__Fingers pushed in harder, and a beat passed before Laurent released the knife, the pressure on his wrist releasing as metal clanged to the ground. The Akielon stepped back, and Laurent felt nearly thrown by the force with which he moved himself away, needing distance in that moment more than anything else._ _

__It was silent. A table was overturned, ceramic smashed and a golden goblet rolling, a tapestry torn and blood pooling around them. Laurent’s own blood was rushing, and he didn’t know if his wrist was throbbing from his mark or from the fingers that had wrapped around it._ _

__They spoke. They argued. They had been interrupted, and shortly after argued some more. When the Akielon came towards him in stunned realization of Laurent’s current situation he nearly moved back again, but there were not enough steps in the room for the space that Laurent required._ _

__Everything felt like it was happening too fast, and before Laurent knew it he was alone, attempted fairness all for naught, and all he could do was drop himself to the couch he had previously been occupying and look down._ _

__The drug was moving through Laurent’s veins, blurring his thoughts and movements and it was too much, all while equally making him feel something combative, something that was too much and- not enough._ _

__Laurent looked down at his wrist, etches and curves swarming before his eyes, and found himself wondering if the letters had always looked so bold._ _

__

__The keep of Chastillon was as unpleasant as Laurent remembered, an appropriate first stop for the journey to his immanent doom. If Laurent took a little longer in his dreadful business with Govart and consequent walk around the courtyard, he told himself that he couldn’t really be blamed._ _

__His walk up the winding stone steps with Orlant trailing close behind him felt like a death march for more reason than one. There were a multitude of things Laurent would rather be doing than spending the night alone with the Akielon, bending close over maps and discussions, but there was nothing Laurent was more dedicated to than using every weapon in his arsenal against his uncle._ _

__The Akielon was difficult, of course, insisting on posturing and claims that they both knew would not be filled, at least not on that night. Laurent allowed it for a moment before his patience ran out like sand in an hourglass, prompting him to set his goblet down._ _

__Laurent picked the accompanying knife up, and it was with calm steadiness that he stepped forward, placing the knife in the Akielon’s hand with the tip pointed towards himself. He didn’t allow himself to think, to breath as he released the hilt and moved his fingers upwards, touching them just below the cuff, millimeters from the mark. As Laurent wrapped his fingers around the tightness of the Akielon’s wrist, he felt the muscles lock up as the fire cracked around them, awareness rushing through the Akielon’s body as Laurent drew the knife to his stomach._ _

__They said nothing for a moment. Briefly, Laurent wondered if their marks had ever been this close, but of course they had. This was not the first time one of them touched the other._ _

__They spoke, Laurent moving his fingers away from his wrist as quickly as he could manage without seeming unnerved, and the Akielon continued to argue, making everything a dance of difficulty between them. Precious time was running out, the only thing that mattered as Laurent said, “I know exactly what it is to want to kill a man, and to wait.”_ _

__The touch was broken, though their eyes still held. Laurent felt resolve and understanding pass through them like a wave of light from the hearth, and the first thing Laurent did as they sat at the table and redirected their gaze to the map was pull the end of his sleeve down as far as it would go._ _

__

__Laurent had a memory, one that he kept locked in and hidden away, pushed down so deep that even he hardly remembered it. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about it a single time since it had initially occurred._ _

__He had been young, perhaps eleven, little more than a year passing since his wrist had taken the mark. Laurent had been alone in his chambers, a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he sat cross-legged across from the fire, looking into the crackle and pop like the constant swirl of orange and yellow would create an image for him, like he could see a glimpse into his future, as if there were something before him other than a slowly dying log of wood._ _

He had been in his thin bed shirt, both sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wrists bare. Laurent’s favored book of the week was open beside him, his chest still full of that light, weightless feeling that one got after reading a particularly enjoyable scene where your spirits were still so high that you felt like you could make the character’s joy your own. He had held his wrist in his hand, lips moving with each letter as the pad of his pointer finger trailed over _s_ _w_ _e_ _e_ _t_ _h_ _e_ _a_ _r_ _t,_ wondering how long it might take before he wasn’t sitting alone in front of the flames. 

__At the inn of Nesson-Eloy with a minor victory still fresh in his bones, the temporary blanket of safety around him and the fire burning before him and the Akielon, that night was the only thing that managed to push through the battlements surrounding Laurent’s memories._ _

__

__Sometimes, things happened so fast that you had no power over them, no conscious realization of what was occurring until it was too late, until you no longer had any control over the situation._ _

__The sound of Laurent’s heart when he looked up form his horse, drinking greedily from the river and saw the Akielon on the other side of the bank, watching him with a look that was becoming too familiar for them. The sound of a bolt coming straight for his unprotected body, his horse’s panicked cry as it skid on the water-smoothed stone of the river, jolting him off and into the air._ _

__There were many different things that ran through Laurent’s mind as he hit the ground, falling just shy of the heavy smash of his horse on the stone, missing his legs by only an inch. Laurent was too winded to do anything but roll onto his back and look up at the trees crowding above him, his mind a cloud of bitter irony as he waited for his eminent death; a bolt to the neck or a dagger to his chest._ _

He heard a _swoosh_ , a second set of horse hooves charging for him, and he thought that the unmistakable sound of a sword piercing through a body might be his own, sound catching up with him seconds before the awareness of pain. He waited for it, anticipating it. 

__And then, Damen._ _

__He was on his knee beside Laurent like he had been all along, and the terror filled concern in his eyes and the jagged sound of his voice as he asked if Laurent was hurt is was made Laurent push up onto an arm, unsteadily, as if closing the distance between them would lessen the pounding in his body and the way his pulse felt like it would rip open every inch of his skin._ _

__Laurent’s lower body was aching, the water from the stream soaking into his pants and clinging to his skin, yet the only thing he could feel was Damen’s hands running over every part of his body that he could touch, searching for injury and instead making Laurent feel more than he had when he smashed to the ground. Damen’s hands, so roughly precise on his shoulder, his chest, his legs. Damen’s fingers, so light on his arm and down his wrist, like his touch alone would sweep away the letters on his skin, like anything ever could._ _

__

__Laurent had read about many different things throughout his life. Tales, customs, secrets, cures. Perhaps he had been reading the wrong books, because he had never come across stories of the delights of Vaskian hospitality._ _

__Laurent’s entire body, his entire being felt aflame as he settled himself on the furs, his mind feverish like it belonged to someone else. Someone who could do this, could feel this, and not question every word he said, every move he made._ _

__The tent was ridiculously small, placing them together so close like it was their fate itself closing in on them, the same fate that had woken them both up one morning to find that someone in the world was waiting for them._ _

__The ice melted on the Akielon’s skin, dripping down his fingers and towards the loincloth that was so absurdly minimal that a single breath would sweep it away. Laurent’s gaze wandered up, up, and he found that for the first time he wished to look at Damen and see him without the marks of gold. He wanted to take his hand in his, to pry the cuff off with his bare hands and run his own fingers down letters that were so familiar that they felt engrained in places other than his wrist. He wanted to see how they would look beside each other, if they would burn to his touch, or glow like the warm lamps blooming around them._ _

__

__There weren’t many things Laurent was afraid of anymore. After the life he had led, the things he had seen and experienced, he had thought that he was an expert of a sort, like there was nothing else that could truly undo him._ _

__As it turned out, there was nothing in the world more terrifying than having his heart exposed outside of his chest, and for that same sensation to be reflected back at him with the man that bore his mark._ _

__The entirety of the situation was a paradox come to life. To want something so badly, to crave it so intensely that you hardly recognized the fervor in yourself, and at the same time to be so petrified that it stripped you down to your core and put your insides on display._ _

__That was what it felt like when the Akielon kissed him like an offering, slow and gentle and too considerate to be real. It was how it felt when he took Laurent in his mouth and made him forget which way was up or how to make his own mouth work. When he turned him on to his back, touched his cheek like a plea, looked at Laurent like he was the first spark of light after a long, endless stretch of dark._ _

__It was as if Laurent had been waiting for this, some part of his mind desiring it for ten years already, like everything that had transpired had somehow been leading up to that moment, yet once it was happening he couldn’t quite manage to repress the tremor that rolled through his body with every breath._ _

__It didn’t go unnoticed, the same way nothing else did, and Laurent could do nothing but try and hold himself together before he cracked, everything spilling out of him like a vat of oil kicked over, liquid warmth seeping around and leaking into cracks._ _

__He was hoping. He was wishing. He was trying._ _

__And then there was Damen, Above him, with him, like he had been for weeks of advising him, helping him, following him into destruction and pulling him out with a victory and a feeling of impossibility, like Laurent could do anything, like he could do this._ _

__Damen’s hand moved up the length of his arm, outflung over his head where a pillow was clutched in his hold, the grazing of his fingers enough for Laurent’s entire body to surge with something new, something different. A shiver that altered his breathing so that it was not like running, but chasing._ _

__Their fingers touched, linked, pushed down tightly so the entire span of their arms were pressed together. As they lay there and kissed, the only thing Laurent could focus on was that had it not been for the barrier of the cuff, their marks would touch and blend in to each other like they were one._ _

__

__Laurent felt wrung out, a towel squeezed and discarded on the floor with a carless flick of fingers. He had done everything, had said everything, and had literally pulled himself up with a drag of his hand across the blood welling from his lips, a sign of triumph in finding a person’s sensitive spot and pressing down, a nail dug into an open wound._ _

__And yet, it was not enough, because he was still there, with Laurent, trying to save him from his uncle like that was his purpose in life, like that was the reason they wore each other’s word._ _

_Don’t go_. A request. A plea. 

_Don’t lie to me. Not you_. A command. A baring. 

__Because the Akielon couldn’t stay for as long as Laurent needed, or wanted. He wouldn’t stay with Laurent, even if he let him. That was not how it would ever be for them._ _

__It took Laurent a moment to understand, for the image to register as his gaze focused and he understood what he was seeing, his fingers pushing the sleeve back so that gold glinted back, winking at him in the light. Gold that should have been removed, and as for as Laurent was aware, had been that morning. It took a valiant amount of restraint for Laurent’s fingers not to tighten on the fabric of his jacket reflexively. Possessively._ _

__It wasn’t just the cuff, a symbol of Damen’s time with Laurent that he had chosen to keep. It was his other hand, the wrist that was no longer ornamented in gold, the skin that was now on clear display. Against his side, unabashed and revealed like a symbol of pride._ _

__It had always been there, of course. It was there in Arles. In Chastillon and Nesson. Vask, and their previous night in Ravenel. But this was the first time that he was seeing it, the same curl and fade as on Laurent’s wrist, a perfect match._ _

__Laurent’s heart felt lodged in his throat, something like a fleet of wasps trying to flap their way out of his stomach, and he found that he had to stop himself from running a finger around the letters, from feeling if the skin on his wrist was as smooth as the rest of his body._ _

__When Laurent glanced up at Damen, they both smiled._ _

__

__There were thousands of things Laurent could have said, and just as many that he could have done, countless ways for this conversation to unfold. They had been running towards it, inevitably, and Laurent had anticipated it as much as he had avoided it, some blistering, cynical part of him brimming with the opportunity to look into his eyes and throw everything down. Like the tattered banner he threw between them, fragments of his uncle’s symbol._ _

__Nothing else mattered, not anymore. It couldn’t. Not the impending alliance or the bared skin or the mud and blood caked man standing before him, somehow still believing in Laurent’s honor despite everything. All of that was gone, burned and blown away like the ashes of all the men that had fallen that day, like the ashes of his brother that would always lie between their feet._ _

__“I’ve come to tell you who I am,” said Damianos of Akielos, his soulmate, the man who killed his brother._ _

__He was surprised to find out that Laurent knew who he was all along, idiotically, as if anyone with a fraction of sense would look at the way he held himself or regarded Laurent and not guessed within a minute that he was born nobility._ _

__“I knew in the palace, when they dragged you in front of me,” Laurent said, relishing in the widening of his eyes. “I knew in the baths when I ordered you flayed. I knew-“_ _

__“At Ravenel?” Damianos said, and there was a throbbing silence in which neither of them spoke, in which both of them were aware of the one thing that had been clear to Laurent in each of those events, in every singular event that had transpired between them since._ _

__Laurent had seen Damianos wearing less, he had seen him wearing nothing, yet seeing the letters on his wrist on such clear display when he was in his current state of dress was worse than anything Laurent could have imagined, and for a moment Laurent wished he had kept both cuffs on rather the one._ _

__They continued to speak, Damianos continuing to search for a spark of light in what would only ever be bottomless darkness. Everything he said only managed to scrape at what was raw beyond of repair, and yet it was all incomparable to the moment he said, “Laurent, six years ago, when I fought Auguste, I-“_ _

“Don’t you say his name,” Laurent said, and the words might have been torn from his throat. “Don’t you ever say his name, _you killed my brother_.” 

__Damianos tried to convince Laurent that he had been his slave, that he had been the good, honest man that Laurent had deluded himself into believing, into being with. It was all too much, all tearing into parts of Laurent that were far too jagged to be mended, and so he set his foot before Damianos and said, “kneel then. Kiss my boot.”_ _

__He couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. The act was too far beneath him, and they were equals. They had been equals since fate had decided that the two of them would wear a crown, since it had decided that they would belong to each other._ _

__Later, as Laurent stood with a hand pressed against his shoulder in an attempt to staunch the blood flow, he wondered if Damianos’ mark had flared as well the night he had met his brother._ _

__

__The night carried secrets. Emptiness and vulnerability, a longing that could be felt without carrying over into the morning. Laurent’s tent was dark, cold. Empty, apart for himself, a notable difference from the past few weeks._ _

__He sat on the edge of his pallet, both hands on his lap with his palms up, sleeves unlaced. He wondered if he was the only one that night looking down at the word that promised lovers, at the cuff that binded them._ _

__His wrists were warm._ _

__

__Like everything else between them, like every other occurrence and confrontation and exchange, this one was unavoidable. However there was no hesitancy here, no unsurety or paradox as he leaned a shoulder in the doorway to the training arena and watched Damianos put everything he had been feeling, a ripple suppressed into a tremor that Laurent could see each time they locked eyes, all translated into his lone training, going at the props lining the dust filled room like he could slash the past away._ _

__There was no indecision here. Laurent had been waiting for this moment since he was thirteen years old, on his knees on the grass soaked by his brother’s blood with his wrist flaming like a Vaskian bonfire._ _

__They went round after round, each one proving more infuriating, each one aiding in turning the barely repressed anger Laurent felt inside into a breathing, ferocious thing. At first it was at not being taken seriously, as if all the years he had dedicated to this were not even worth a serious fight, simply a friendly go around like childhood companions, sparring with wooden swords._ _

__It grew from that, altered into something more, sinking its claws and teeth into Laurent’s veins and infusing him with rage as he realized that all those years truly weren’t worth a serious match, because he wasn’t good enough. It was all for naught, because he was never going to be good enough._ _

The sullen, acrid realization did nothing to stop Laurent, only amped up his attempts so that he began to utilize everything within arms reach. Sawdust, armory, a bench. At one point he had lost track, the only registering thought was that _he must win._

His back was thrust into the wall. Damianos’ body was pressed against his, his forearm to his neck with their faces inches apart. Laurent reached for a dagger, only to result in his wrist to be grabbed, the reflex quick and immediate as Damianos banged it against the wall so that Laurent’s grip would release. Laurent thought, _no_. 

Vision darkened with gut wrenching desperation, Laurent drove his fist in, followed by his knee. Damianos stilled for a gratifying second, only to grab onto Laurent and throw him to the ground, the breath knocking out of him as Damianos followed him down and drove his own knee into his stomach, holding him in place. As Laurent began to thrash Damianos caught his wrist again and held it above his head. Laurent thought, _not there_. 

__Distance was a necessity, bitterness an inevitability. As they stood feet apart with both of their chests heaving, Laurent tried to ignore the words that were coming at him, the thoughts that were coming to him, but it was all a sudden, blinding rush._ _

_No, you couldn’t have, you’re not good enough._

__Auguste was the stronger man, the greatest fighter to have ever wielded a sword. You only had to be half as good as him to be ten times better than anyone else. No one could beat him in a fair fight, it wasn’t possible._ _

_Neither was your brother._

__The only way someone could beat Auguste was with dishonor. There was no other way- nothing else was-_ _

_You’re wrong, he was-_

_What?_

_Better than I am. He would have-_

__The words cut off mid sentence, mid word, and Laurent felt his thoughts come to a standstill like a sword driven into a wall, like a soldier’s march halting so that all that was around them was a deafening silence, everything inside Laurent slowly coming to the surface._ _

Damianos was stepping forward, and Laurent nearly stepped back, his understanding of what this meant, what this _all_ meant making his head spin, making his insides ache like there was a hammering, like some filter of light was trying to break its way in. Pounding, separating, slipping in through the cracks- 

__Laurent opened his eyes. He expected his vision to be blurred, but instead found Damianos stepping forward with the retrieved dagger in his hand, and nothing had ever been clearer._ _

__It was placed in Laurent’s hand, the tip drawn to Damianos’ stomach, a stance that was familiar for them, for they had been there before._ _

__But they hadn’t, exactly, because it was different. Or Laurent’s understanding was different. He knew now what he hadn’t known then. He understood now what he had never understood._ _

__“Stop me,” Damianos said. His hand was gripping Laurent’s wrist again, holding him in place, and a part of Laurent accredited the fact that his legs had not given out to the fact hat he was being held up._ _

__“You’re unarmed,” Laurent said, and he was fracturing._ _

__Laurent felt the moment Damianos’ grip on him changed, the touch shifting so that his fingers spanned out softly, like each one could touch each letter on Laurent’s wrist, on Laurent’s heart, that he could see on Damianos’ own skin, inches, millimeters away from him. The knife thudded to the ground._ _

__Laurent didn’t know how long he had stood there after Damianos had left the hall with his sword gripped in his hand. The only thing Laurent managed to do was sweep his fingers around the curves of each individual letter like he was a little boy again, sitting in front of the fire and thinking of the future._ _

__

__Laurent remembered the sensation of swimming in wine, like his head had been dunked in it, like it ran through his veins. That had been nothing compared to this, this tribulation which felt like his entire body had been dunked, his clothes soaked in liquor so that it seeped through the fabric and into his pores._ _

The affects of the wine combined with the swill these men called _Griva_ was truly one of the more unpleasant things Laurent thought one could endure, but his situation seemed to have significantly improved when he found himself in Damianos’ arms. 

__He should disentangle himself. He should put distance, should implement some form of control over the situation, over his own pulse. And he would, truly, if he knew which way his chambers were or which way the floor was._ _

__Damianos smiled at him, and Laurent realized that he had been talking for quite some time. He tried to stop, but all attempts felt futile. He missed their conversations, and a part of him felt like a dam smashed open, the part that was not a collection of floating limbs held together by tight laces and binding clothes._ _

__“Attend me,” Laurent said, thrusting a hand out._ _

__The jacket tangled at his wrist, and the irony of it could have undone Laurent, the way Damen struggled so that when he had finally gotten it off, the two of them could look nowhere but at the patch of skin that was finally revealed, glowing and bright, throbbing between them like Laurent’s heart in his chest, like the breaths leaving Damianos in pants._ _

__Laurent almost reached for Damen’s hand. He wanted to turn it over and look, to press them together or feel the way the letters sparked against the pads of his fingers. He nearly did, but instead he found himself drifting towards his mattress, sleep covering him like a veil._ _

__

__All it took was a brief glance at the ache in Damen’s eyes, the utter heartbreak and the visible sign that his chest was caving in-a sensation Laurent knew all too well-for his decision to be made._ _

__They would have one night together, one more night, and it would be enough. Laurent would make sure that it would be enough._ _

__Laurent had done many things in his life that he wasn’t always too sure about, but he was never surer of himself than he was in the moment he slipped into Damen’s room with the decision that he would give his life up for his soulmate._ _

__

__The swishing by his thighs, the air that hit Laurent as he walked through the long halls was wholly new and unfamiliar, though he wouldn’t go as far as to say unpleasant. The cool breeze that met him was something akin to the chill that hit your skin when stepping out of a warm bath in the autumn, water still trickling down your back._ _

__Dressing had taken significantly less time than usual, though his mind had been more preoccupied than ever, thinking this and that as he looped cloth, fastened pins and wound sandal straps. Despite everything that was going on, the way the world and the universe seemed to be crowding in on them at what felt like knifepoint, all Laurent managed to think about was the view of every part of him that he was offering; legs, arms, wrists._ _

__Though the exposure of his body was not one that he was particularly comfortable with, he couldn’t bring himself to feel any form of unease over the blatancy of his mark, on clear display for the world to see. There was no shame in that._ _

__He walked into one of the inner chambers were Damen was sitting over a map, a ceramic pitcher in his hand._ _

__“Did you learn the rotation of the border patrols?” Laurent asked._ _

__

__“It’s our last chance for a real bed before the Kingsmeet.”_ _

What Laurent didn’t say was, _it’s our last chance for me to do this._

What he didn’t say was, _it’s our last chance to be together._

__It was nothing like Laurent expected, which he should have been used to, because this was Damen._ _

__Laurent had proven something to himself, had claimed something that had been taken from him and had allowed himself to do this, to trust someone else._ _

__And he did. He trusted Damen._ _

__After, they kissed. They touched. They talked, and for a moment Laurent allowed himself to listen, to entertain thoughts of what could have been, if they were people who were given the safe, simple life that others had. And it wasn’t even nonsensical, wishful dreaming, because it was real. It could have been them, in another world, because they were each other’s soulmates. They bore the proof on their skin, there with them for ten years in ten delicate letters._ _

__“You’re not alone,” Damen told him, after, when they were on their backs with less than a handspan apart._ _

__There was nothing Laurent could say to that, nothing to be said that would change either of their fates. He smiled, wordlessly, and reached out to touch Damen’s wrist._ _

__

__The cells of Ios were about as poor as to be expected, cold and dark and gritty, true to form in its dank sense of hopelessness._ _

__Though if Laurent was being technical, the situation wasn’t hopeless. He had made this decision and had known exactly what it entailed, what he was giving up._ _

__His life for Damen’s kingdom. His life for Damen’s. And when put like that, how was it even a question?_ _

__Laurent let out a breath, his head tipped back on stone. Fate was always leading him here, to this conclusion, to this moment. Since he was a boy with flaming letters on his wrist he had known his life was linked to another’s. It was only right that his ended for Damen’s to go on._ _

Laurent closed his eyes, knowing sleep would not come. In the dark, his fingers traced the letters, _s_ _w_ _e_ _e_ _t_ _h_ _e_ _a_ _r_ _t._

__

__Damen was alive._ _

There was a lot of blood, Laurent’s hands full of it. His elbows, his clothes, the marble around them, fading into pink as it mixed in with trickles of water. The wound in Damen’s stomach needed to be stanched immediately, and _Damen was alive._

__“Our men have the gates and the halls,” Laurent said. His heart was pounding. “Ios is yours.”_ _

__“And you,” Damen said. He was still on his back, looking up at Laurent with a light in his eyes that was almost tangible, despite the wound that was throbbing beneath Laurent’s hands. “With your uncle gone, there won’t be resistance. You have Vere.”_ _

__Laurent could feel the moment drawing out. He lifted his eyes slowly, speaking over the pounding in his entire body. ”And the center. We both hold the center.” He said, “It was one kingdom, once.”_ _

__He didn’t know how to fathom the way Damen looked back at him. The only way he could describe it was that it was something akin to the feeling in his own chest._ _

__Damen reached a hand out and brought it to Laurent’s that was still pressed against his own body, holding the life inside of him. With his fingers curling around Laurent’s wrist, the warmth of his palm covering his mark, Damen said, “Yes.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> [ @laurent-ofvere](http://laurent-ofvere.tumblr.com)   
> 


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